Paul Weller
English singer-songwriter.
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Is happiness real?
Or am I so jaded
I can't see or feel - like a man been tainted.
Numbed by the effect - aware of the muse
Too in touch with myself - I light the fuse.
I am out of season all years round - watch machinery roar to my empty sound.
Touch my heart and feel winter, hold my hand and be doomed forever.
If you see me in the street - look away, 'cause I don't want to ever catch you looking at me, Mr Clean.
'Cause I hate you and your wife, and if I get the chance I'll fuck up your life.
If you gave me a fresh carnation, I would only crush its tender petals...
Some people might say my life is in a rut, but I'm quite happy with what I've got.
If we get through for two minutes only it will be a start!
The more I see - the more I know,
The more I know, the less I understand.
You'll see kidney machines replaced by rockets and guns -
And the public wants what the public gets - but I don't get what this society wants.
Those braying sheep on my TV screen -
Make this boy shout! Make this boy scream!
If you're wondering by now who I am, look no further than the mirror,
Because I am the greed and fear - and every ounce of hate in you.
A whole street's belief in Sunday's roast beef gets dashed against the Co-op,
To either cut down on beer or the kids' new gear, it's a big decision in a town called malice.
Days of speed and slow time Mondays -
Pissing down with rain on a boring Wednesday...
I play out my role, I've even been out walking -
They tell me that it helps, but I know when I'm beaten...
Life is a drink and you get drunk when you're young.
When you're knocked on your back and you life's a flop,
When you're down on the bottom and there's nothing else but to shout to the top!
Two lovers kissing amongst the screams of midnight,
Two lovers missing the tranquility of solitude.
The fingers feel the lines, they prod the space - your ageing face,
The face that was once so beautiful, is still there but unrecognisable...
The morning slips away in a Valium haze and catalogues,
And numerous cups of coffee,
In the afternoon the weekly food is put in bags - as you float off down the high street.
The shop windows reflect, play a nameless host to a closet ghost -
A picture of your fantasy, a victim of your misery...
I first felt a fist - and then a kick, I could now smell their breath,
They smelt of pubs - and Wormwood Scrubs - and too many right-wing meetings.
It's so hard to understand why the world is your oyster but your future's a clam.
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